Here and there fantastic figures loomed, moving slowly, two and two, under the fairy foliage; on the Gray Water canoes strung with gaudy paper lanterns drifted; clouds of red fire rolled rosy and vaporous along the water’s edge; and in the infernal glow, hazy shapes passed and repassed, finding places among scores of rustic tables, where servants in old-time livery and powdered wigs hurried to and fro with ices and salads, and set the white-covered tables with silverware and crystal.

A dainty masked figure in demon red flitted across his path in the uncanny radiance.  He hailed her, and she turned, hesitated, then, as though convinced of his identity, laughed, and hastened on with a nod of invitation.

“Where are you going, pretty mask?” he inquired, wending his pace and trying to recognise the costume in the uncertain cross light.

But she merely laughed and continued to retreat before him, keeping the distance between them, hastening her steps whenever he struck a faster gait, pausing and looking back at him with a mocking smile when his steps slackened; a gracefully malicious, tormenting, laughing creature of lace and silk, whose retreat was a challenge, whose every movement and gesture seemed instinct with the witchery of provocation.

On the edge of the ring of tables she paused, picked up a goblet, held it out to a passing servant, who immediately filled the glass.

Then, before Duane could catch her, she drained the goblet to his health and fled into the shadows, he hard on her heels, pressing her closer, closer, until the pace became too hot for her, and she turned to face him, panting and covering her masked face with her fan.

“Now, my fair unknown, we shall pay a few penalties,” he said with satisfaction; but she defended herself so adroitly that he could not reach her mask.

“Be fair to me,” she gasped at last; “why are you so rough with me when—­when you need not be?  I knew you at once, Jack.”

And she dropped her arms, standing resistless, breathing fast, her masked face frankly upturned to be kissed.

“Now, who the devil,” thought Duane, “have I got in my arms?  And for whom does she take me?”

He gazed searchingly into the slitted eye-holes; the eyes appeared to be blue, as well as he could make out.  He looked at the fresh laughing mouth, a young, sensitive mouth, which even in laughter seemed not entirely gay.

“Don’t you really mind if I kiss you?” He spoke in a whisper to disguise his voice.

“Isn’t it a little late to ask me that?” she said; and under her mask the colour stained her skin.  “I think what we do now scarcely matters.”

She was so confident, so plainly awaiting his caress, that for a moment he was quite ready to console her.  And did not, could not, with the fragrant and yielding intimacy of Geraldine still warm in his quickened heart.

She stood quite motionless, her little hands warm in his, her masked face upturned.  And, as he merely stared at her: